GOD'S EARLY CHURCH Whole months pass without sun. February all coffee and the stink of iron. Once, a girl from Carolina left me for dead. Something about ambition and the ropy vein in the bend of my arm. I lanced them both with flowers from another country. You should have seen it. Years of that until the windows were full of a juice called methadone designed I guess to sweep the streets of me. I weighed myself down with coats of it. I unplugged the voices of my friends. The world? Fuck. I can’t get enough of it. __ ALIEN ABDUCTION It must be a rupture like waking, all that light, telepathy and dental work, and like the sever in the sylvan groove that secrets bad sex and calculus you bury it, deeper than infancy, deeper even than the memoir closed by birth, each leaf a little mattress beneath which the memory sits like a shelled and irksome legume not even the fussiest princess senses. But in the face of every fetus is an alien: the disproportionate head, blunted and sexless, eyes like raindrops, sleepy and dark. If it was flesh that muffled the sound of your mother’s voice, you might swear all talk was telepathy. If born into a hospital fluorescence, you might recall a blinding light, what Saul saw and called God. Or say your head pushed out ahead of your shrunken and colored self, the pressure it suffers might seem a vice for curious surgery. Torn from the warm swamp of her womb against your living will, you’d remember a struggle, like abduction, a gallery of eyes and the naked sensation of being watched, for the first time. __ THE DESERTION OF NOUNS First to go are the names of fruit and the people you haven’t loved. The dental assistant who pats your shoulder when the drill stops, the waitress whose smile was broken by stroke, the mailman with his tattoos and tramp of snow in the late morning. Call him Karl, Karl who you’ve seen in the produce aisle talking to himself because he can’t remember if it’s turnip or mustard greens that the man he has loved for twenty one years wants, the man he talks about on your porch with uninterruptible speed but whose name escapes you now like his illness, though you recall its manifestation in spots, in the gentling of memory. Spots like the ones blooming beneath the tan on your hands that you notice when you take your uncle his omelet. For him there is nothing so lucid as 10 am, when the spills of breakfast settle and a nephew returns with a tray of nouns and a name just below his forehead. Starts with a B. Even in the snarl of tissue we call his brain you count one hundred trillion synapses down which chemicals still whip fibers and tear across cell divides— one hundred trillion to lay down the jumpy tracks of memory, nudge his blood, chill what is left of terror, schedule sleep, help him walk or shape a plan to kill himself. Bird, he says, Ethel Merman, with rope. The day I rubbed my friends from the Memorial Wall. Pomegranate. ____ These poems are taken from the forthcoming book Poppy, to be released in Fall by the Del Sol Press. |